


Attached

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Jousting, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 05:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Abe thought he was resigned to anything by the time his new knight arrives to collect him." Abe is used to acting as squire for knights and determined to avoid getting attached. Mihashi doesn't intend to disrupt his plans, but accidents happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attached

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inelegantly (Lir)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/gifts).



Abe thought he was resigned to anything, by the time his new knight arrives to collect him. He is good at what he does, too good to go for long without being picked up by the latest in a long string of brave knights too young and too reckless to live very long. Abe has seen far more tournaments than any of the knights he dresses for them, has watched from the sidelines long enough that he can see the pattern and the predictability under the rush of metal and movement. He flinches in advance of the audience, now, can recognize a bad seat or a misplaced lance from the whole length of the field, where his distance from the clash and the inferiority of his birth prevent him from doing anything useful with the knowledge.

So he’s expecting the worst, he’s ready to hold himself at arm’s length and avoid any real attachment. It’ll be easier, he thinks, if he can avoid caring. He’s in the stable when the door creaks open, the motion so timid he thinks it must be one of the other servants come to help him move the heavier pieces of equipment.

“Hey,” he says as he turns around. “D’you have a minute to help --” But he doesn’t know the face staring at him from the doorway, doesn’t recognize the gold of those eyes or the flinching apology in the shoulders.

Abe backtracks, straightening his spine as he tries to pick out some insignia, the hint of a uniform or a more noble bearing to indicate the rank of the boy cowering in the doorway. “Sorry.” The newcomer’s clothes are plain white, remarkably clean for a servant but remarkably unadorned for a noble, and his bearing is all wrong for either, it lacks the self-satisfied swagger Abe associates with the upper class and the uncaring slouch of the lower. Still. That shirt is really  _very_  white, and when Abe takes a step in it’s a fine weave too, hanging soft over the boy’s narrow shoulders with the elegance of something more expensive than it looks at first glance. “M’lord,” he appends, keeping his voice clear of the questioning upswing that threatens in his throat. It’ll be an error to judge too high, but it’s far worse to sound uncertain about his decision.

The boy’s eyes go impossibly wider, so huge they dominate his face with fluttering panic. “Ah!” He’s stumbling backwards as if Abe’s threatening him, covers the few steps until his shoulders hit the wall behind him. Abe is just starting to determine he was wrong after all, beginning to let his own shoulders relax into more casual comfort, when the other gets his throat to work around speech and blurts, “Mihashi!”

There’s a flicker of recognition, a chill of foreboding Abe can’t place for a breath, and the boy goes on, words catching on his tongue with how fast he’s trying to speak, now. “I-I’m M-Mihashi.”

Abe’s mind settles on the memory -- the brief conversation he had regarding his new lord, a surname unattached to anything worth remembering -- just as the chill settles into ice in the pit of his stomach, right alongside the instant amused affection at the boy’s stammering.

 _So much for not getting attached_.

~*~*~

It’s just as bad as Abe expected it would be. Mihashi is cringingly apologetic, with none of the haughty backbone Abe has come to expect if not necessarily appreciate from the higher classes. He tries to help when Abe pulls the training padding over him, apologizes when Abe tells him to stop moving, trembles like he has adrenaline for blood the entire time Abe is touching him. Abe doesn’t comment, doesn’t express the faintest flicker of doubt aloud -- he knows his place, and it’s not to question -- but his mouth is drawn into a telling line as he watches Mihashi scramble ungracefully into the saddle of a horse that appears far too large for him.

“The quintain, m’lord?” Abe asks, more from habit than anything else, as he offers the lance up for the other’s hold. It’s heavy enough that it takes some effort for him to hold it one-handed; in Mihashi’s hand it shakes with the effort the other puts into supporting it until he gets it balanced across the front of his saddle.

 _He’s going to be destroyed_ , Abe thinks but doesn’t say. At least the quintain is just going to pummel him without leaving any injuries but bruises. Abe doesn’t think too hard about the chill that runs through him at the idea of bruising across Mihashi’s skinny shoulders. That’s not his place either.

“Y-yes.” Mihashi’s not looking at him. He has his head dipped down like he’s the one of lower status, shoulders hunched like he’s already feeling the inevitable blow. When he tries to kick his horse into motion it takes him two tries before he can make himself be noticed, and even then it’s only to a slow walk to the starting point facing the practice dummy.

Abe moves forward, stands just clear of Mihashi’s movement and the end of the lance in his desperate hold. His heartbeat is thudding slow and chill with dread, the inevitability of what is to come too painfully clear for him to look away.

It’s a long moment before Mihashi moves. Abe can hear him breathing, the sound of his inhales coming fast and high until he wonders if the other isn’t just going to fall off before he manages to move. Then there’s a deep breath, shaking but forceful, and this time when Mihashi kicks the horse moves immediately. The motion is quicker than Abe expects, startles him in his periphery, but it’s still slow enough that he can see the lead-in to the impact, the angle of Mihashi’s approach on the quintain. The lance is holding steady in spite of the horse’s movement, the boy is leaning forward into the impact instead of cringing away from it, but he’s still too small, there’s no way he can follow through on the hit itself, no way he can keep the lance in line --

The point hits the target dead center. Even at a distance Abe can hear the  _thud_  of a perfect impact, the satisfaction of a hit avoided as Mihashi’s forward momentum carries him past the point of collision with the weighted dummy. Abe’s eyebrows go up, surprise too sudden to repress, and Mihashi is turning back around, his horse falling back into a walk as the momentary control over the lance dissolves into shaking again.

“Sorry.” Abe’s quite sure he’s never been apologized to before by a knight, even a fragile youngest son like this one. Mihashi’s not meeting his eyes again, staring down at the handle of the lance and blinking like he might be about to cry. “This--this quintain isn’t as tall as what I’m used to.”

“What?” Abe reaches out without thinking to grab the horse’s reins and draw it to a stop. “You hit it perfectly.”

Mihashi’s chin comes up. His eyes are glowing, damp and startled wide. “I didn’t.” His mouth is falling into a frown, he’s shaking his head like he’s expecting a blow. “I was too high at the end, I s-should have corrected sooner.”

Abe stares up at the other’s face. His head is ringing, silent but for the stuttered meaning in Mihashi’s words. “You can be more accurate than that?”

Mihashi stops shaking his head. His eyes come into focus on Abe’s face again, settle on the other’s eyes. Abe can’t remember the last time a knight really looked at him properly. “Y-yeah.”

Abe doesn’t smile. He’s too relieved for that. He lets the horse’s reins go, steps back so Mihashi can guide it back around. “Show me.”

It’s on Mihashi’s fourth run, when he’s hitting the exact point Abe indicated for the third time in a row, that Abe starts to grin.

~*~*~

By the time they go to the first tournament, Abe isn’t worried at all. His hands are perfectly steady while he fastens the padding around Mihashi’s waist, his breathing even and low and as calm as it usually is even though he can feel the other shaking so badly the motion is visible through all the extra layers wrapped around him. That used to worry him, the way Mihashi goes wide-eyed and panicked as doubt swallows up the certainty he  _ought_  to have in his skill, but hours and hours and hours of practice have proven that he can do exactly what Abe tells him, even if he’s trembling so badly he can’t get on his horse unaided.

So Abe’s not worried, even though Mihashi is staring at the low fence down the center of the field and doesn’t look to have blinked in several minutes. He keeps his mind on what he’s doing, cinches the loops as tight as they will go so the soft padding is actually tight around Mihashi’s narrow chest.

“There,” he says, more to himself than to the boy who’s clearly not listening to him. The weight of the armor itself is heavy for Abe to manage alone; when he lifts it off the ground he can feel the burn all through his arms, the weight turning his movements jerky and uncoordinated. When he turns back around Mihashi is still staring out at the field, entirely unaware of his presence, and when Abe speaks it’s without thinking, forced sharper than he intends by the strain of the weight.

“ _Mihashi!_ ” He’s flinching as he’s speaking, hearing the casual address of the name and the assumed dominance in his tone, but Mihashi is jerking in response, spinning around as if Abe’s slapped him, and it is  _his_  expression that is apologetic, so much that Abe swallows back his apology, feels a rush of pleasure that his impropriety was so  _effective_.

“Lift your arms,” he orders, and it  _is_  an order but Mihashi is obeying immediately, he’s not voicing a protest by so much as a raised eyebrow. It’s easy to fit the protective metal over his arms and across his shoulders; even when he emerges from the shape of the neck looking ruffled and flushed Abe doesn’t offer an excuse. He’s too warm from the adrenaline of getting away with something, the satisfaction of giving a command and having someone  _listen_  to him instead of laughing in his face.

“Remember what I said,” he starts as he pushes Mihashi’s arm up, drops to a knee to tighten the leather fastening along the sides. “He’s bigger than you are, so you’re going to use your leverage to get the lance up against the bottom of his shield.”

Mihashi nods, the motion so stiff and violent Abe can feel it without an upward glance. He looks up anyway, catches the tremble at the corner of Mihashi’s lip before Abe looks away sharply, flinching as his skin flushes weirdly hot.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, keeping his eyes on what his hands are doing this time. His voice is lower, too, less rough and less commanding. “Just do what I told you to and you’ll win.”

By the time he’s back on his feet the worst of the shake is gone from Mihashi’s mouth, his eyes still bright but less liquid with panic. Abe helps him get into the saddle, tries not to think about how small the other looks wrapped in what protection armor can offer against all the bruising impact of a lance. He doesn’t smile when their fingers touch as he hands the lance up, but their eyes meet for a moment, and when he nods Mihashi’s mouth steadies into focus.

When Mihashi’s lance catches at the bottom of his opponent’s shield to send him sprawling into the mud of the arena, Abe  _does_  smile.

~*~*~

They make a good team. Mihashi’s pinpoint accuracy is hard to believe, even after months of watching him consistently hit exactly where he intends to in both practice and tournaments, and if the audience doesn’t see Abe’s influence in the strategy of Mihashi’s motions, Abe knows it’s there, and Mihashi’s stuttered thanks says  _he_  knows it’s there, and that’s really all Abe needs.

By the end of the third tournament they have a routine in place, so set by habit that Abe doesn’t even wait for Mihashi to start trying to get the padded suit off before he snaps, “I’ll do that.” When he turns around from setting the armor down Mihashi’s head is dipped, his shoulders hunched around guilty obedience, and the reassurance that Abe was right in his assumption pulls the tension of a smile flicker-fast across Abe’s mouth.

“Are you hurt?” Abe asks as he steps in closer, as Mihashi lifts his arm without being told so Abe can work the knots at his waist free. He’s expecting the head-shake that comes too fast for any sincerity, growls protest as the last tie slides free and he moves to the other side. “Don’t lie to me, I’ll be able to tell in a minute anyway.”

Mihashi swallows so hard it’s audible, or maybe it’s just how close Abe is that lets him hear the reaction. “I. I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.” The tie comes free so Abe can fit his fingers between the shiver of Mihashi’s shoulders and the weight of the padding and tug it up over the other’s head. He carefully sets that aside before he comes back to close his hands on the bottom edge of the other boy’s shirt and peel it up and off.

Abe does do his best to make sure Mihashi doesn’t get hit. There’s only so much he can do from the sidelines, but as long as the other boy does precisely as Abe orders, the worst he suffers are glancing blows or the impact from his own lance hitting his opponent. It’s the light end of what  _could_  happen to him, Abe knows, but when he gets the last layer of clothing off there’s a long line of bruise rising along Mihashi’s ribcage, a smudge of purple so dark over his pale shoulder that it’s torn into an open wound across his collarbone, and Abe can’t help the hiss of concerned frustration in his throat.

“You  _are_  hurt.” Abe’s voice is rough with worry but he’s careful with his hands, touches the bruises so gently Mihashi doesn’t even flinch from the contact.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Mihashi mumbles, his head still tipped down so Abe can’t see his eyes. It probably doesn’t, with the adrenaline of the tournament still so strong in him Abe can feel him shaking under the other’s fingertips.

Abe frowns at the top of Mihashi’s head. “It will.” He lets his hand fall, turns to splash water into the bowl balanced somewhat precariously on the stand in the corner of the tent so he can wet a cloth. When he turns back around Mihashi’s chin is up higher, gold eyes fixed on his shoulders and jumping up to his face as Abe comes close, steadies Mihashi’s shoulder with one hand so he can wipe at the trickle of blood over the other’s skin. “You need to get enough rest tonight.” It’s not so hard to look at when it’s cleaner, the dirt and dried blood washed away so Abe can reassure himself that the bruise is limited, really, the cut is just a narrow scratch rather than something worse. “I’ll get you something to eat after this is wrapped up.”

Mihashi nods, the motion painfully desperate, but the feverish adrenaline-heat is fading from his skin, and Abe stays quiet so he can hear the whisper of “Yes, Abe” turned soft around an almost-smile.

~*~*~

Eventually, even Abe falls out of the habit of worrying.

It’s not that he is comfortable with the idea of Mihashi facing down an opponent’s attack. Out-of-context the idea is still terrifying, alarming in a way that turns his stomach when he’s idly considering the fragility of the other’s shoulders, the delicate bones of his wrists and the visible shape of his ribs under his skin. Abe has had enough experience with tournament injuries -- the bad kind, the ones that leave cripples and sometimes bodies instead of bruises and a little blood -- that it keeps him awake at night thinking about those applied to Mihashi’s frail form. So he  _doesn’t_ think about it, he collects their wins like he’s constructing a wall between his own experience and his present reality, and he sleeps through the night, and every victory feels like a guarantee.

He almost doesn’t even notice Mihashi’s edginess during the tournament preparation. Abe is usually the one who is stern with concern, Mihashi the one bright-eyed with fluttering trust. It’s such a constant that he doesn’t question it, doesn’t notice the way Mihashi’s not looking at him and doesn’t think about the little half-formed words on the other’s lips as anything other than the usual humming excitement. He’s got everything on, the padding tied down and armor cinched tight, before he grabs for Mihashi’s fingers and feels how bone-cold they are.

“Hey.” He goes still, tries to meet the other’s eyes, and that’s when he finally realizes Mihashi isn’t looking at him. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t mean for the question to come out like it does. It sounds like an accusation instead of an inquiry, so rough that Mihashi flinches back and tries to tug his hand free of Abe’s hold.

“N-nothing.”

There’s no way Abe is going to believe that, not with how desperately Mihashi is trying to get away. He tightens his hold, past the point of comfort and right up on the edge of painful, pulls to keep Mihashi close enough to grab if he has to. “Don’t lie to me, Mihashi.” His thumb presses hard against the other’s palm, squeezes until some of his own body heat starts to flush the other’s skin. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m.” Mihashi looks up, catches Abe’s eye and glances away immediately, blinking like he’s on the verge of tears. His gaze skims out across the field, down to the opponent just hoisting himself onto his horse.

“It’s going to be fine,” Abe declares, forcing his voice into reassuring calm instead of the irritation he can feel rising hot in his chest. He thought they were  _past_  this. “Just like I told you, Mihashi. Aim for the left edge, he holds his shield off-center and you’ll be able to get the best impact there.” Mihashi is still leaning away, pulling so hard at Abe’s hold that it puts his balance at risk. “ _Look_  at me.”

Mihashi cringes but turns, unwillingness written into every line of his body but obedience too deeply ingrained for him to ignore. Abe doesn’t even think about the oddity of the noble capitulating to the demands of his servant. It’s normal for them, by now, and there’s no point in thinking about something that works.

“I think--” Mihashi starts, but then he blinks and Abe can see whatever he is going to say flicker into silence.

If they had more time Abe might be more patient. If Abe were a different person maybe Mihashi would be talking instead of blinking. There’s any number of points where this could go differently and Abe has the patience and composure to contemplate none of them.

“Tell me after,” he says instead, dragging Mihashi back over the balance of his own feet and letting his hand go. “Just finish this match first.” Mihashi’s head is down again, the eye contact is gone, but he offers his hands for the weight of gloves, and Abe tugs them on, settles the helmet over his golden hair with more speed than care. Even in armor Mihashi is so light that getting him up on his horse is never as difficult as Abe expects, and then the herald is speaking and there’s no time for Abe to do more than move aside and let Mihashi do what he does best.

Abe is almost not watching. He always does, at least minimally, but everything always goes as he expects and he’s gotten in the habit of thinking about the aftermath before the present is confirmed. So he’s staring at the arena, tracking the movements of the opponent’s charge without really thinking until something registers as  _wrong_ , some angle is different than what he expects, and he blinks and jolts into sudden sharp attention. The shield is different than it should be, it’s angled in to cover the previous weak point, and Mihashi is still doing what Abe told him, still aiming for that inside edge which means --

Abe’s running out into the field before it’s clear, moving before Mihashi has even hit the ground after the heavy sound of the opponent’s lance solidly hitting his armor. He doesn’t hear the shout of protest from the opponent, the yell of shock from the audience at Mihashi’s fall; all he hears is the ringing in his ears, the odd echoey shout of Mihashi’s name tearing from his own lungs. He’s on his knees in the dirt of the arena, reaching out to grab at the weight of the armor that is supposed to protect Mihashi and has never been tested before, so his hand closes on the shape of Mihashi’s covered shoulder just as the other rolls sideways and all the air in Abe’s lungs blows out with the first rush of relief.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he gets Mihashi’s helmet off and can see the clear gold of the other’s eyes under his ruffled hair. His inhale feels like a sob, desperation giving way to delayed-reaction panic, and when he ducks his head to hide his face his tears are stinging hot on the chill of his hands.

~*~*~

Nothing is broken, as it turns out. The armor did its job, spread out the impact across Mihashi’s chest so he’s just bruised, so he can still take a deep breath without the telltale pain of broken ribs. It doesn’t save his skin from the purple-blue color, though. Abe can trace the shape of bone just from the outlines of the bruise, run his fingers unerringly along the stripes of darkness from the uneven impact.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. He’s lost count of how many times he’s said it, how many times he’s let his gaze drop from Mihashi’s eyes to the dark imprint on his skin. He’s not sure he’ll ever be warm again.

“No,” Mihashi says, again. He’s forcing the words out, they’re coming unusually loud with the effort. “I k-knew he was going to, I remembered him from the first tournament.” He sounds breathless, close enough to tears that Abe doesn’t dare look up to his face. He’s still too close to crying himself, still too caught in the self-flagellation of tracing out the lines that are  _his_  fault, the injuries  _he_  is responsible for. “He  _knew_  me, he knew what I was going to do.”

“I should have known,” Abe says again. Mihashi’s breathing is coming faster, he can see it in the movement under his fingers. “I should have paid more attention, I should have known he would change his attack to adjust, I should have  _known_.” He ducks his head, shuts his eyes while the guilt hits him again. “I should have protected you.”

“Abe.”

Abe can’t lift his head. His hand is shaking, chill seeping down his arm in spite of the flushed heat of Mihashi’s skin, but his eyes are burning, tears are pooling hot in his throat. He can’t look up, can’t trust himself to hold it together when the whole scope of his arrogant assumptions is crushing him.

His hand goes warm, so hot for a minute he can’t even recognize what he’s feeling. Then the heat forms into discrete sensation, fingers pressed against his wrist, and when he lifts his head Mihashi’s hand is tight around his arm, squeezing so tightly it aches.

“T-thank you.” The stutter is familiar but the tone is not; it pulls Abe’s gaze up unthinking to land on golden eyes staring straight at him without any command from Abe to keep them there. He’s so used to Mihashi’s usual panic it takes him a minute to identify what’s different, to realize that he’s seeing an absence of overemotional damp shining over the color.

Then Mihashi smiles, and everything in Abe’s head -- guilt, pain, apology -- shifts aside to make room for the warmth of that smile.

“Thank you,” he says again. There’s no stutter this time, no hesitation, just the soft inflection of gratitude. Abe can’t parse it, can make no sense out of what’s happening; he’s adrift in the moment well before Mihashi swallows, and leans in, and rests his mouth against the corner of the other boy’s. The pressure lingers for a moment; Abe can feel Mihashi breathing even though he isn’t. His mouth goes warm, glows like it’s lighting up from the inside, and the sound that escapes his throat -- a tiny unthought whimper -- is shock more than it is protest.

“Mihashi,” he says, and the other boy pulls back an inch, breaks the contact so Abe can attempt to breathe again.

He has words, or had them, but they evaporate as soon as he tries to collect them on his tongue, fall apart until they’re just meaningless sound. It’s Mihashi who succeeds in taking an inhale, Mihashi who lets his too-tight hold on Abe’s wrist loosen into gentleness. And it is Mihashi who speaks, who says “I’ll talk to you next time” as smoothly as if he’s stolen coherency directly from Abe’s mouth.

This time Abe leans in, turns his head so he can capture the full softness of Mihashi’s lips with his. He can still feel the heat of bruises under his fingers, can see his mistakes behind his eyelids. But bruises heal, and mistakes can be forgiven, and when he opens his eyes all he sees is gold.


End file.
